


Rock Bottom

by SomedayonBroadway



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [7]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drug Abuse, Heavy Angst, M/M, Modern Era, sprace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomedayonBroadway/pseuds/SomedayonBroadway
Summary: Race was free falling. But the bottom had to be close. It had to be.
Relationships: Racetrack Higgins & Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon & Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1435090
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Rock Bottom

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt from my Bad Things Happens Bingo card!
> 
> The trope is Backhand Slap. Everything else just kind of happen.

"You can't keep doin' this. You cannot keep doin' this—"

"You don't understand! You neva' did!"

"So help me understand! I'm tryin' ta understand!"

"You can't—"

"Try me!"

"Could you stop trying to control me?!"

"I'm tryin' ta save you from yourself—"

"I don't need you ta save me!"

Once upon a time, they'd been the perfect couple. In fact, they'd been in love.

Sometimes they forgot what that felt like. They supposed that it was bound to be this way. After all, once they'd made it to the top, to the happiest part of their lives, things could only go downhill from there. The worst part of it all was, neither of them knew how much farther rock bottom was.

Judging by the backhanded slap that seemingly resounded off of every surface of their apartment, it was easy to have hope that they were close. They had to be close.

Race froze, standing in shock as he watched his husband's face snap to the side, a big red mark beginning to swell on his cheek. The blond gasped, not moving, not even speaking. He just waited for the inevitable.

It wasn't long before Spot recovered with a small, bitter laugh, grabbing his wrists and slamming him back against the wall. Race hardly felt it. The bottle was wrenched from his fingers and thrown across the room, shattering against the wall as some leftover beer dropped down onto the hardwood floor. Then Spot let go of him. They were still nose to nose. "You wanna fuckin' hit me, Race, fuckin' hit me!" the slightly shorter man dared, scowling and glaring daggers at the younger man who tried to stare back down at him angrily.

Silently, his mind reeled. This is what Spot said would happen. He couldn't believe this was happening again. He wasn't thinking. He couldn't think. He didn't want to. All he knew was that he was unmistakably, without a single doubt, completely and totally wasted. He just wanted to drink himself to sleep, maybe even further. It helped with the bad thoughts. It helped with the bad days. It just helped.

Except for when it didn't.

The anger had worn off a bit. Honestly all Race wanted to do was cry. But he shoved those thoughts away with all the other ones that swirled around in his broken brain. "Get the hell offa me, Sean," he growled, his voice slurring only a little.

"Make me," Sean challenged, standing his ground. It was no secret that the man was strong, but even though he might not look it, Race was too. They were evenly matched. "I can't keep goin' through this with you Tyler— Tony— whatever the hell it is you wanna be called these days! You're out of control n' I can't watch you keep spiraling!"

The blond growled a bit. "Then leave," he spat.

The words hit Spot harder than Race ever could. He backed away, feeling like he'd just been punched in the gut as he forced himself to say, "Fine. I'm done."

The world slowed down for a moment as Race watched the man he'd loved for so long walk away from him. Everything was a blur after that door slammed shut. All Race knew was that he had to get out, he had to do something. He couldn't just stand there. Anger and despair rose up in him and the alcohol swirled it together before Race let out a bitter laugh.

He couldn't remember what happened after that.

He woke up in a holding cell. It wasn't the first time. If he did say so himself, he'd gotten very good at sleeping in the stiff benches that were built into the ground. It didn't mean it made wake up any easier. His head pounded and his mouth was dry. He felt stiff and sore and nothing felt right.

Running a hand over his face, Race stared up at the ceiling. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut when he tried to move his gaze. The lights hurt. "Hey! I want my phone call!" he tried to yell, but his voice was coarse and his head was pounding. All that came out was a broken whimper.

"You already made your call, Higgins," someone said. It was a vaguely familiar voice but Race didn't care to look up to see a familiar guard.

"Does it count if I don't remember it?" he groaned, knowing he must've screwed up big time.

No one answered him. So he let out a heavy sigh and just lay there, trying not to break at the bits of last night he did remember. His memories always came back in fragments. He ran a hand over his face and then dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He really didn't want to remember.

Finally forcing himself to sit up, Race found that he wasn't alone in the room. On the other side of those bars a man was staring at him, leaning against the wall and as much as Race wanted to cry right then and there, he didn't. He just walked over to the bars that divided them. "Spottie…" he muttered, unable to look at his own husband.

"Asshole," Spot shot back quietly, not moving from his place against the wall.

Race's heart dropped when he managed to look up for just a moment. A bruise and a split lip was prominent on the man's face. His gaze shot back down the second he caught a glimpse. "I'm sorry—"

"Bullshit, T," Spot spat, still quite comfortable on the other side of those bars. "If you were sorry at all, this wouldn't be happening again. It's been goin' on for too long, Race!" The shorter man shook his head, looking vulnerable for just a moment as he pushed himself off the wall and walked closer to the person he'd walk through hell and back for. "I'm tryin' ta hold on for you, but I can't do this forever n' we both know it."

Daring to look up when his husband came closer, Race felt the tears prick at his eyes but he refused to let them fall just yet. "I… I thought you were leavin'..." he whispered, leaning his forehead against the cold metal that kept him contained.

Rolling his eyes, Spot shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yeah… I made it about halfway through packing a bag before I found out that you were trying to break into someone's house."

That's when a few thin tears began to fall down Race's face. "I-I didn't call you, did I?" It wasn't a question. He knew very well that he hadn't called his husband. No, there was someone else he needed to talk to, someone else he had to hear from.

With a small sigh, Spot pulled out a phone that wasn't his own and managed to find, through a cracked screen, a voicemail message.

" _H-hey… l-look this time I knew he wouldn't pick up… I just_ ," Race heard himself break off into a sob. " _I just really needed ta hear his voice right now. B-but I know you're there, Spottie_." Every word was shaken and squeaked and broken. Race let his tears fall listening to it. He just sounds so hopeless and desperate. " _I… I… God, you're probably gone already. N' I can't blame you f'r that…_ " he slurred a bit, clearly still drunk, but his mind was clear enough for him to think at least somewhat clearly. " _I guess I just wanted to, uh, go home… I wasn't thinkin', Sean, I know I wasn't I just wan'ed ta see him again_." Race was crying now. Both in the message and right there in that cell. He had just wanted to go home. " _I'm… you don't have ta come… but… if you're leaving just know that I love you n' that I'll regret everything I did till the day I die…_ " The young man tried to make the tears stop, he scrubbed at his face. " _Anyways… uh… goodbye, I guess…_ "

By the end of the message, Race could no longer lift his gaze from the floor. He felt so heavy, like gravity was pulling him down even harder. He didn't speak. He had nothing left to say.

With a quiet sigh, Spot put the phone away, walking up to the bars. He wrapped his hands around them. "You wanna look at me?" he asked.

"No," Race admitted, his voice watery and broken. He shook his head and pressed his forehead up against the cool metal in front of him. "No, I wanna stand here n'... realize for the first time that I'm only wearin' one shoe," he sniffled, almost laughing. That just made him want to cry even more. "Jesus, if he could see me now…" The words came in a breath followed by a bitter laugh. "I can already hear him—"

"' _Kid, you're an idiot_ '," Spot imitated. He used to do it a lot more often. Not so much anymore. "Yeah, I know that lecture." They both knew that lecture. "Then he'd give you his shoes and take you home and make you breakfast but refuse to make you bacon because it's the only thing you'd ask for n' it's the only way he knows how ta punish you." It was true. That's exactly what would happen.

The tears only fell so much faster down Race's face as his throat tightened. He wrapped his arms around himself. He wanted to make a joke. It was his first instinct, even if they had gotten darker in the past eight months. He wanted to ask Spot if he was just going to leave him here, in this cell, just to get even, but words wouldn't come. He couldn't speak, all he could do was close his eyes and pray for shoes that were a size too big for him and a long lecture that would never end and a big breakfast with everything but bacon.

Swallowing hard, the young man raised his head to find the face of the man he loved with a handprint bruise on his cheek. "I-is this rock bottom?" he asked desperately, needing it to be over.

"Baby, you broke right through the floor," Spot sniffled, looking right into those broken blue eyes.

They hadn't been the same since the crash.

"I thought my back hurt," Race tried to laugh, but he couldn't. Not when he looked at Spot's face. He reached out to caress his husband's cheek. Spot only barely flinched. "I really am sorry," he breathed. "I shouldn't a' said any a' that… I shouldn't a' fuckin' hurt you, I—"

"Shut up, Racer," Spot sighed. "Just, shut up. You do this every time. You do somethin' magnificently stupid n' you think an apology will fix it," he shrugged, only feeling slightly bad for being so blunt. "That ain't gonna fix it this time. You need help. N' you know it."

Race shook his head. "You still don't fuckin' get it," he grumbled, letting himself stumble back a bit until he slouched onto that bench.

"Oh don't give me that bullshit anymore, Tyler!" Spot spat, making Race flinch a little bit at the name he'd been called. It hurt to hear. "You really wanna keep tellin' me I don't understand? Like I didn't lose someone too?"

"You weren't _there_ , Sean!" Race cried pathetically, his voice breaking despite his attempts to keep it strong and together but it wasn't working. All he sounded was broken. "You… you weren't there…" He squeezed his eyes as he let his head fall into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. "You didn't hear them tell you that it was him or me. You didn't hear him begging me to let him go—"

"Race, stop," Spot insisted. "Just, stop." He'd heard it all before. So many times over again. "I know I wasn't there. I know that. And I know that you somehow think this is your fault but it ain't."

Groaning, Race looked up at him, his eyes red rimmed and tired. "I don't wanna do this right now—"

"Well that sucks, sweetheart, because you're stuck in here right now n' you got nothin' ta do but listen, so ya better shut your mouth and chill," the shorter man said, looking down at his husband. "What happened to Jack was not your fault." Race twitched at the sound of that name. He could hardly say it anymore. Spot had never seen someone so deep in grief. It had been painful to watch in the beginning. He hated that it was so familiar now. "He wouldn't have wanted this for you—"

"Yeah, well, he's not here, so it doesn't really matter, does it?" Race spat, glaring now. It was easier to be angry than to be broken. And damn it, Race was angry. Race was angry because there was no one left for him to blame but himself.

The words hurt to hear. "God, you don't really believe that do you?" Spot breathed. "Tyler, I know that you think I'll never understand. But I didn't just lose my best friend in that wreck, I… I fucking lost my husband too…"

It was true. That day had changed Race forever and he knew it. All of it was so painful for him and the only thing the kid knew how to do was distance himself, even going so far as to change his name, try several times to change his look and refuse to visit his nephew who looked too much like a man who was never coming back for him. Spot watched as the boy he loved so much slowly faded away into a drunk, drugged up disaster.

Still, Race only scoffed. "I don't know what you want from me," he whimpered with a shrug. "That… h-he was my brother, Spottie. He raised me. H-he… he gave up everything he had for me n' then he…" The blond shook his head. "N'... every time I think I can breathe again, I see it happening all over again n' I just…"

"You need a drink," Spot finished for him. He sighed, holding out a hand to the man he loved so much, waiting for Race to take it. When the blond did, Spot pulled him up towards the bars and guided his hand to his own swollen cheek. "I want you to get help, baby. _Real_ help. Please."

Looking down at his own handiwork was heart wrenching. Spot had been Race's friend for nearly a decade. Race had watched him grow and get tougher and stronger and better throughout the years. Spot Conlon was the strongest person that he'd ever met and yet here he was, standing beaten because he didn't hit back. He never hit Race back. Not really. "I need help…" the young man admitted, terrified, as was evident in his trembling voice. "Fuck, I need help."

Spot nodded, clearing his throat before turning to the guard. "You can let him out now," he supposed, watching as the guy went to unlock the door that held Race inside.

For a long moment, Race didn't move. He just stared pathetically at his husband and shrugged. "What do we do now?" he asked.

The shorter man sighed and walked up closer to his husband, the man he adored above all else. He took his hand gently and looked up at him. "We take it one step at a time," he breathed. "You ready?"

Race swallowed hard, nodding almost numbly as he looked past his love out into the cruel world before him. "Yeah… I think so…" he lied.

Still, Spot turned and tugged Race's hand.

They walked out of that cell together and each step, still weary and uncertain, was easier than to one before.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, before ya'll come asking, I have no idea how Jack died. All I know is that it was some kind of situation where only Jack or Race could be saved, whether someone deliberately did that to them or they were in an accident of some kind where they were both gonna die but the EMTs got there and figured out to to save one of them, I don't know. I'm not that medically creative, but there you have it. If anyone has an particular ideas, I'd love to hear them.
> 
> I've really been beating on Jack lately. It's oddly satisfying and so sad.
> 
> Anyways,
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Make sure to tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, what you'd change or what you'd improve by leaving me a review. Love ya, fansies!


End file.
